Her breath catches momentarily at the sound of my voice, like I startled her.
“Sophomore year of college. I made brownies for a study group and really liked it. Started experimenting after that... You?”
“Years ago. My mom used to be one of the top pastry chefs in Chicago, and it was kind of our thing. Me and Dad had baseball, me and Mom had baking.” I chuckle. “And origami.”
“I was wondering about the origami.” There’s a smile in her voice, and I latch onto the sound, soaking it in. “You’re always folding little animals and things.”
“Yeah. Helps me think. My fingers tend to fidget otherwise.”
“I’ve noticed.”
That surprises me. “You have?”
She doesn’t answer, and we sit in the silent darkness for a while longer. I try to quietly readjust my position without being obvious. This couch is honestly the worst. No matter which way I lie, I’m losing sensation in at least twenty-five percent of my body, while the other seventy-five percent is in pain.
Fucking hell.
“Why are you doing this contest?” she asks out of nowhere. “You don’t need the money. Is it for your mom?”
“Yeah,” I admit, then give her most of the truth. “My mom doesn’t work as a pastry chef anymore, but she still loves baking. And she really loves when I bake. My dad hates it, but he’s kind of a prick. He doesn’t think I should have interests outside of baseball. But I’m doing this just so my mom can see me doing and enjoying something we used to do together.”
She hums, and we go back to silence.
“I’m doing it for my brother Brandon,” she whispers after a while. “He died freshman year of college.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, then remember the E.E. Cummings tattoo she has inked just above her heart. “Is that who the tattoo is for?”
“Yeah,” she pauses, “he was my twin brother.”
“Did he...um...did he like to bake, too?” I’m desperate to keep her talking, feeding off every ounce of information she’s willing to give me. So much about Bailey is a mystery. I’m drawn to her even when she hates me. Even when she infuriates me, I’m pulled to her. It’s the same thing that brought me to her in aisle six of Quick Stop when I was only there for beer. The same thing that made me work for her number, for her name, despite Talia and everything else I have going on.
I need to know her. Everything about her. Even if she doesn’t want to know me. Even if she can’t.
Bailey is like an origami star made from the last page of a book I am absolutely loving. Beautiful and intricate and necessary. To learn her story means I have to be gentle—careful with the creases and edges, attentive to the most delicate parts. Unfold the pages just enough to appreciate what’s inside, but not so much that it can’t be molded back to its original shape. She’s the most complex and captivating type of art.
She snorts. “Not unless you mean getting baked.” I laugh with her. “No, I didn’t start baking until after he died. But I’m going to use the money to do something for him.”
She’s cryptic, but she wouldn’t have brought it up if she weren’t open to talking about it, right? I take the chance.
“What is it that you’re going to do for him?”
She’s quiet for a long while. So long that I think I fucked up, crossed a line, but then I hear her roll over. When I glance at the bed, she’s on her side with her eyes on me.
“I’m getting him a new headstone.”
Oh. “Oh. Is his broken?”
“No. But it should be. Bran was transgender.”
She pauses and I can feel her eyes burning into me, challenging me, as if she’s waiting for me to say something. When I don’t, she continues, “Brandon was trans, and our parents...well...they’re assholes. And they weren’t accepting. Honestly, they’re hateful and horrible. But Bran and I got out and went to college, and everything was okay, you know? People at school were amazing. He was flourishing as himself. We both were, but he was doing it out in the open as Brandon. As who he was always meant to be. But then when he died...”
“They didn’t,” I whisper, disgust filling me.
“They did. They held a big funeral service for Brielle Barnes, their ‘loving and devoted daughter,’ and then put that name on the grave marker. It’s abhorrent. Brandon wanted to be cremated and sprinkled across Lake Michigan, so every single fucking thing about it was despicable and disrespectful. A betrayal and a spit in the face of him and everyone who loved him. It was just this huge lie carried out so my parents could save face in the eyes of the town and the God they think told them to reject him. Their own child.”
Her voice is strong with anger and determination when she adds, “But I’m going to fix the part that I can. That’s why I’m doing this contest.”
“How much do you need?”
“I don’t want your money,” she bites out quickly.
“No, I know. You’re going to do this without help, I get it. I was just curious.”
She huffs. “For the headstone, the setting fee, and the removal and disposal of the old grave marker, I need thirty-two hundred, but I’ve got about two grand saved. I already have the headstone order placed. I just got to get the rest of the money.”
We drift back into silence, but the air around us feels clearer, less stiff. I listen to her soft breathing and match mine to hers, thinking about what she shared with me. Our paths, different in so many ways, yet so similar in others. The biggest difference? I’m a liar, and she’s not. She’s strong, and I’m a fucking coward.
Before sleep takes me, I whisper into the darkness, “We’ll win for Bran, Sundance. I promise.”
A soft “thank you” floats toward me from the bed as I drift off to sleep, but I don’t know if it was her, or a dream.
“Get up,”someone growls, and something soft and heavy hits me on the head.
I startle awake, the quick motion sending agony through my stiff neck and back. I swear the resounding crack of my joints can be heard through the walls.
“Ow, fuck,” I groan, and I’m smacked again with the soft, heavy thing. I let my eyes adjust to the darkness and find Bailey standing in front of me, hair a mess and pillow in hand. “Jesus, what?”
“You’re folded up like a damn pretzel and snoring like some redneck’s jacked-up Ford, that’s what,” she grumbles. “Just get in the bed and stay on your side.”
My sleep-addled brain doesn’t quite understand as she climbs back onto the far-side of the bed and burrows under the covers. “What?” I ask lamely.
With her back to me, she says, “Get in the bed, Stanton. If the improved sleep posture doesn’t stop the snoring, though, I’m putting you in the fucking hallway.”
Oh. Well, okay then.